


Bottle of Gin

by Llewcie, thymogenic



Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Spacedogs - Fandom
Genre: First Kiss, Genie Magic, Hannibal Extended Universe, Love Triangle (sort of), M/M, Servitude & Slavery, Slow Burn, THE UST WILL BE RESOLVED, UST, alcohol consumption, genie au, shopping trips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-04 20:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thymogenic/pseuds/thymogenic
Summary: While on loan to the Palomar Observatory in California, Adam rents an old house in Mission Hills. His first days go smoothly enough, that is, except for the attic door mysteriously opening by itself again and again...





	1. The Last Word

_The Last Word is a gin-based prohibition-era cocktail._  
_Use 1 part Green Chartreuse, 1 part Gin, 1 part Maraschino liqueur, and 1 part Lime juice._  
_Shake with ice and strain into a cocktail glass._  
_Serve straight up; without ice._

 

* * *

 

 

“Just scandalous, aren’t they?” A lilting, accented voice whispered into Nigel’s ear, warm breath tickling his skin, all other sounds momentarily muted so that these words pierced straight into his perception.

Before he even turned to identify the source, his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. The speakeasy was damn loud, crowded with rowdy drunks and a shining ten piece dance band squeezed in next to a stage littered with a dozen vivacious girlie dancers, and yet he was able to hear these words with absolute clarity. It was akin to something like witchcraft.

Nigel turned his head toward the adjacent table to find his nose not a few inches away from a lovely feminine face, graced with olive skin and intense grey eyes lined with kohl. Her dark hair was set into delicate finger waves, and her ears glittered with crystal chandelier earrings that danced in the club’s bright stage lights at the slightest of movements. Nigel looked her seated form up and down, appreciating the way her chiffon evening gown draped over her curves.

‘ _I knew coming out tonight wouldn’t be a waste_ ,’ he thought to himself.

Then he straightened up his posture, adjusted the white tie that matched his suit, and replied in a loud voice, “You mean the girls?”

The woman matched his volume. “Yes. We do not have this sort of entertainment in my country.” And then she began digging into her evening bag for a cigarette, which she then retrieved and brought to her lips.

“And, where would that be, gorgeous?” Nigel asked, as he brought a lighter up to accommodate her.

She exhaled a big cloud of smoke, holding the burning stick elegantly in her right hand. “Iran. And you? Your accent is not American.”

“Romania.” Nigel paused, his attention momentarily stolen as the band wrapped up the lively tune and the dancers on stage all took a bow. He joined the other patrons in a brisk round of applause, before turning back to the woman seated behind him. “My name is Nigel. May I ask yours?”

“You may call me Raznia.” She extended her free hand, to which Nigel gave a chaste kiss. They met eyes. Nigel grinned toothily. Raznia’s eyes smoldered as she grinned back. “Why don’t you come join me?” she purred.

Far be it from Nigel to refuse such an offer. He got up immediately, bringing his matching hat, and sat next to her at her table, sitting with his legs nearly tucked into hers as they faced each other. He waved down a passing waiter after setting his hat down and ordered them two cocktails, the first round of many they would have that night.

They drank and drank, and told each other funny stories about their respective hometowns, and complained about all the ‘fucking Americans’ and their silly ways. And the more time that went by, the more handsy Raznia became, always finding a reason to run a hand down Nigel’s arm or push him slightly on the shoulder whenever he spun a particularly humorous yarn. By the time she started nonchalantly leaving a hand unbidden high upon his thigh, he knew it was imperative to get them both the fuck out of there and somewhere more private.

He stood suddenly, putting his dashing hat and fur coat on, dug in his pockets for cash, and threw a few dollars on the table for their bill. “Let’s get out of here, what do you say?”

Raznia beamed up at him and gave a quick nod. She took his extended hand and he nipped them both over toward the bar. He had noticed earlier that the bartender had stepped out, so he reached his hand behind the counter and then grabbed the nearest bottle of gin he could find, before bolting out the door, his lovely, new, giggling acquaintance in tow.

They tore down the street toward the boardwalk, laughing and drunk on gin and the high of petty theft. Eventually, Nigel found a nice quiet spot for them to sit and continue drinking, where they sat on the wooden planks of the boardwalk and let their legs dangle off the side. The moon was full and cast everything in a pale azure tint, and its rays sparkled on the waves of the sea.

They passed the bottle of gin back and forth, taking ungraceful sips straight from the bottle and not speaking. Soon, sexual tension began hanging thicker and thicker between them. Raznia, looking deep into Nigel’s eyes, flirtatiously offered to teach him a lover’s poem in her own language. Beyond drunk and unbearably horny, he was more than happy to try to woo her in her own native tongue, so that perhaps soon he would be tasting hers, instead.

She instructed him to just follow after her, best as he could, and she would tell him what it all meant later. The first line came out, and Nigel stumbled over the unfamiliar sounds. They giggled and Raznia assured him that he was doing quite well indeed, that she liked the way his tongue carried the words. When she put a suggestive emphasis on the word ‘tongue’, Nigel stared at her mouth and vowed to himself to do his absolute fucking best for the rest of the poem.

They started again, and he repeated each line sloppily - at first. Then more and more was spoken, and he progressively went into a sort of trance where he became able to parrot the words back to her with increasingly striking accuracy and as each syllable was crisply uttered, the air began to subtly change. It wasn’t long before a miasma of dread clouded around him. Nigel sensed the moon’s light slowly diminishing. The susurration of the incoming surf beneath them simmering away into barely a lapping. It made his heart flutter with fear. Despite this, he said nothing about it and continued following her, as he was told.

He wanted so much to stop, but before he realized it he could not, and he kept reciting her words, on and on, everything getting darker, and quieter, and soon he couldn’t even see her and his whole world was just her disembodied voice, chanting harsh consonants and elongated vowels, rhythmic. Entrancing. Frightening.

Then, her voice stopped it’s chanting, and settled into a rumbling laugh. The last word Nigel heard was spoken in a deep baritone, no longer the sweet siren song that had bewitched him all evening: “Gotcha!”

 

 

 

In an instant, everything was black and silent. And Nigel was alone. Somewhere else, that was not the boardwalk, or even the world he knew, anymore.

 

 

 

Back at the boardwalk, the waves crashed and the moon shone and a solitary, half full bottle of gin sat there, with no one else around to be found.

 

* * *

 

The house in Mission Hills was old, well over a hundred years. Adam was grateful that he had gotten a good price through AirBnB for his month-long stay in California, where he was on loan to the Palomar Observatory to observe their astronomy presentations, and to admire their 200-inch Hale Telescope, which was one of the largest operational telescopes in the world. It was an opportunity for Adam to decide if he wanted to move here permanently, and he did think that San Diego was a beautiful city. The house itself was a little bungalow in the Craftsman style, and by this the homeowners indicated that any damage to it would be taken out of his deposit. Adam had reassured them that he would be polite and unobtrusive, and so now for a month the cool, airy house was his.

It was Wednesday, and he began work on the next Monday. He had wanted to get to San Diego early enough to be settled in, to keep his nerves to a minimum come Monday morning. That meant thoroughly exploring his house, going through his two hour route at the correct time each morning and evening, and finding a store close enough to supply his needs. He unpacked his sweaters and button-downs into the dressers, put his extra shoes in the closet, and sat down to google the nearest store. Thankfully, there was a small corner grocer less than five blocks away, and even better, they had milk and orange soda and Amy's Organic macaroni and cheese, and several kinds of cereal, and he staggered back to his borrowed home under the weight of enough food to last him several days.

Finally, everything put away, and after he had eaten his first meal in California, he settled into an armchair in the pleasant little living room and pulled up Netflix, where he had bookmarked the National Geographic channel, which had several promising documentaries. Today had gone well, for his first big adventure. He sighed happily and gazed around his cozy little house one more time, just to make certain everything was right.

The door to the attic stairs was cracked.

Adam felt a little thump of fear against his ribcage. That door had definitely been closed a half an hour ago, when he had gone to heat up his meal. He reached for the phone.

"Harlan?"

"Adam? Are you alright?" Harlan's voice was rough and sleepy, and Adam remembered that it was three hours later in New York. He was in a different timezone than his friend. For some reason that struck him harder than being 3000 miles away. He would say that he called Harlan at seven, but Harlan would say he had called at ten, and they would both be right, even though they spoke at exactly the same time. It made him a little dizzy to contemplate, so he returned firmly to his objective in calling.

"There's a door open that wasn't before, Harlan. What do I do?" He knew that Harlan would ask for more information if he needed it.

And he did, immediately. "Adam, is it an outside door?"

"No. I locked all of those. This door leads to the attic."

There was a long pause. "Have you been up there?"

"Yes, earlier I went up to check it for mice. There are plastic tubs filled with decorations and clothes and some furniture." It had been very neat, for an attic, or what Adam imagined an attic might look like, from shows he had watched. He had never had one of his own.

"Sounds like an attic." Oh. Perhaps Harlan had an attic, and his assessment was correct. Rather than ask him about it, Adam focused on the conversation they were having.

"Yes."

"Did you shut the door when you came down?"

"Yes."

"And now it's open?"

"Yes."

A muffled sigh came from the other end of the phone, and Adam knew the exact face that went along with it. It gave him a pang in his belly that felt both sharp and sad. "Adam, I think that you didn't shut it properly. The house you are staying in is old, isn't it?" Was he implying that Adam didn't know how to shut a door?

"Yes, but I did shut it properly, Harlan."

"Well, I bet it just came loose. Old houses have loose doors sometimes." Harlan was insinuating that perhaps the house was off center, and that doors swung open. But this house was tightly built, and the doors fit neatly in their frames.

Adam thought about telling Harlan than he had heard the click of the lock, that it had shut firmly behind him, but Harlan had already given him several good arguments, which Adam had refuted. Harlan, 3000 miles away where it was dark outside, was not going to be able to help him. He sighed, and decided to say something that would reassure Harlan. "Alright. I'll try closing it again."

"You do that, sweetheart."

"Ok. Goodbye, Harlan."

"Goodbye, Adam."

Adam hung up the phone, immediately missing the sound of his friend's voice, and pushed himself up from the chair. He walked carefully to the door. It was a wooden door, white with six inset panels, freshly painted, with a doorknob made of cut and polished glass in a brass setting. He peered inside to the small landing below a narrow set of white-painted stairs that curved halfway and doubled back, so that he could not see the top. Adam didn't watch horror movies-- he didn't enjoy being scared when life was already so complicated to navigate. But he had a feeling that this was the sort of thing that people did in horror movies; standing at a door they thought they had closed, looking up the stairs into the dark. He thought about calling Harlan again, just to hear his voice.

But then, he thought, he could just close the door. He was a grown man. Harlan wasn't here. He would have to do it himself anyway-- Harlan wasn't going to get on a plane and fly 3000 miles to close a door for Adam. Having Harlan on the phone wasn't going to make a bit of difference. He could do this.

He nodded sharply to himself. He closed the door. The lock clicked. For extra precaution, he turned the little brass bolt, and it gave a satisfying click as well.

There.

Feeling relieved, Adam went back to his National Geographic program on Netflix. He hit play on the first one, and settled back into his chair. If his eyes strayed to the door every few minutes, it was only to find the door securely shut and locked, just like he had left it.

In the morning, after a restless night of poor sleep, Adam dragged himself out of bed at his alarm. Today was his first test run, where he would travel the bus route he had researched to the Palomar Observatory. It was two hours there and two hours back, so he made sure to pack his Kindle with several books he liked already loaded on. After all, it was possible that he would be beyond the reach of wifi during part of the trip. He ate his cereal looking at the attic door, which was still closed and locked, and then carefully locked up the house before heading down the sidewalk to the bus station at the corner. He handed the driver his pass, which he had purchased at the airport, and took a seat near the middle, so he would be close to the door.

It was a long day. Changing buses three times really challenged his anxiety, but he persevered. The observatory itself was very beautiful and he spent a long time getting familiar with the building itself. Since he didn't start work until Monday, he decided he would come back tomorrow, which was Friday, and introduce himself. The buses ran on the weekend as well and would likely be more crowded, and he still hadn't decided whether he would go up to the observatory then. Maybe two pre-trips was enough to ease his mind. When he got home, it was still bright daylight, being around one in the afternoon, and he made his way back to his borrowed home with the thought of having a late lunch and settling down with episodes of Inside the Actor's Studio that he had saved on his laptop.

As soon as he came in the front entrance, his eyes were drawn to the dark gap in the wall by the hallway to the bedroom. The attic door was open again.

A frisson of electric fear shivered through him at the sight of the black gap of the open door. Had someone been in the house? He forced himself to check the back door and the first floor windows, but everything was secure. No one had been in the house, unless they had a key. Was there a cleaning service? Adam breathed in, held it, and breathed out. Slowly, for several minutes, he worked on getting his anxiety under control. Anxiety was an artificial construct of the mind, he knew; a misfire of adrenalin to ready his body to fight or run. Just chemicals let go by a faulty signal, flooding his body and ratcheting up his heart rate. No one ever died from anxiety; even if he felt like he might be dying, he wasn't. Slow and steady breathing was incompatible with the feeling of burning in his gut, and he could control his breathing. He said this to himself over and over as he breathed in and out, staring at the open door and the dark stairway beyond it.

After ten minutes of steady breathing, the feeling of terror faded, and he was left lightheaded and tired. Still, the door gaped open, and Harlan was not coming to help him. Adam would have to deal with it himself. He walked carefully towards the door, his entire body tense and alert for any kind of sound or movement. When he reached for the handle, it was cool under his fingers. He stood for another few moments, gathering his courage, and then tugged the door open, letting it swing wide and bump against the doorstop on the wall. For several dozen breaths, he just listened at the foot of the stairs, but the only sound was his own breathing. With tremendous courage, he set his foot on the first step. And then the second. He paused, but there was still no sound. He continued up the stairs, his head slowly becoming level with the floor of the attic. The light, unfortunately, was at the top of the attic stairs, and as he peered around the turn of the staircase, the attic was illuminated only by the dim light of the fading afternoon.

It seemed he stood there in the bend of the staircase forever, too scared to go on. The soft light picked out the corners of boxes and crates, but the attic was still mostly in shadow. His eyes ached with the strain of trying to see clearly in the dark. Nothing seemed different, and he debated going back down and locking the door again-- maybe propping up a chair against it. But he knew he would worry all night, and if the chair happened to be moved in the morning? Icy terror spiked in his belly. No, he had to check the entire room, and satisfy himself that no one was here. Finally, his legs unfroze enough to move, and he dashed up the rest of the stairs all at once, and turned on the light.

At once, the room seemed benign again. Shadowy corners revealed themselves to be empty. Boxes with colorful holiday decorations were stacked neatly by the window. A small table was shoved against the back wall, and on it was an old bottle and glass, as if someone came up here to drink and not be bothered. Adam could relate to that. He crept carefully toward the little desk, and looked all around it and beneath, but there was no one else in the room. The windows were shut tight. It had just been a trick of the house after all. Adam sighed, feeling the beginnings of relief, and sat down heavily in the chair next to the desk. It was an old wooden office chair with a cloth-upholstered back, and it creaked loudly when his weight settled on it. He set his hands on the table and felt dust under his fingers. The bottle on the table was very old, with a little jousting knight on a horse on the front. The label read, "Royal Knight Distilled Dry Gin." He tipped it up, and there was a very small amount of liquid still in the bottom. He opened the cap, which came off with the sound of a vacuum seal being broken, and sniffed at the top of the bottle. His eyes stung immediately, and he put it down quickly, screwing the cap back on. If he had had any interest in taking a drink, it was gone now.

For several minutes, he sat in the chair and let himself calm down. The lock was still a puzzle, but at least the house was secure. He slowly untensed, and his muscles ached with spent fear and no sleep and a long day of being bounced around on a bus. He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand across his face, and thought about going downstairs and cooking his dinner and going to bed early.

When he opened his eyes, there was a man sitting on the desk in front of him.

Adam shouted in shock, his legs kicking him backwards so hard that the chair unbalanced, and he hit the floor, slamming the air from his lungs. He scrambled back in a crab-crawl, yelling in fear, until his back pressed against the wall. The man cocked his head and gently raised his hands in front of his body. "What the fuck, darling, are you alright?" He made to lean down and Adam kicked out with a foot. The man leaned away, and then stood on long legs and backed up a step. "It's alright, sweetheart. I'm not going to harm you."

Adam gasped for breath like a beached fish. "You! Where?"

The man smiled, all teeth. "In that fucking bottle, to be honest, and I'm grateful for my release." He paused, then added, "And I will never drink another fucking drop of gin as long as I live." He turned and spat on the floor. Adam stared at the spit, which glistened by the man's shoe. It was a very expensive-looking shoe. In fact, the man was dressed for an elegant party, in a pure white cream tailored suit, with a black shirt and a pale silk tie with a fat knot pulled up tight against his throat. On his head was a sharp white fedora with a black band, and draped over his shoulders was a deep brown fur coat that fell to mid-calf. He looked impossibly elegant and totally incongruous in the little attic, a man entirely out of his time. Adam swallowed, and straightened, pulling his knees up.

"Did you unlock the door?" His voice was not steady, and rather thin. He tried clearing his throat. "Did you open it?"

The man nodded, casting a glance toward the stairs. "My options were limited, but I had to get you up here somehow. I didn't mean to scare you," he added softly, and offered his hand. Adam stared at it. The man's nails were neatly trimmed and buffed nearly opaque. His hands were large and looked strong. Adam didn't want to touch him, but he thought it might be considered rude to refuse help, so he placed his hand against the man's palm. It was warm, and the man pulled him up easily, tugging him forward so that Adam wouldn’t hit his head. Adam swayed a bit and the man reached out and put his other hand on Adam's shoulder, to steady him. They stood for a moment in close proximity, and then the man let him go, shaking his head. "I don't know which one of us is more lucky," he murmured. Adam didn't understand what that meant.

"Lucky?"

"Lucky, darling. You, that you found me or me, that you're so fucking gorgeous." Adam blushed and shook his head, and the man gave him a lopsided smile. "If you haven't figured it out yet, I'm a genie, and I'm at your command." He gave a little bow, and kissed the back of Adam's hand. "Three wishes, and anything you desire within my power to give you will be yours."

Adam sat back down again.


	2. Pink Gin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam and Nigel strike a deal.

_Pink Gin is a cocktail made fashionable in England in the mid-19th century, consisting of Plymouth gin and a dash of Angostura bitters, a dark red bitters that makes the whole drink pinkish._  
_Chill the cocktail glass, then coat the inside with the Bitters. Add the gin very well chilled, garnish and serve._

 

* * *

 

 

"What's your name, gorgeous?" he said, studying the dazed young man in the soft attic light. His voice was dry with disuse, and he cleared his throat with a gruff swallow. "Do you have one?"

The man blinked at him, and then carefully nodded. "Adam." His voice was tremulous. Nigel nodded, and tried on a smile. It felt vulnerable, so he replaced it with a frown, and then felt ridiculous for wavering. He probably looked like a fool.

"Nice to meet you, Adam. You can call me Nigel."

Adam held out a shaking hand, his good manners stronger than his fear for the moment. "Pleased to meet you, Nigel." Nigel took his hand-- it was clammy with nervous sweat, but Nigel squeezed it firmly, and attempted another smile.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Adam," he repeated. "That would be counterintuitive, since I'm bound to you for the duration of our contract. Hurting you would hurt me in return." He looked at Adam more closely, then, taking in the delicate nose and lips, the huge eyes framed in thick lashes, his cheeks blushing the color of pink gin, and he briefly thought he might like to trick Adam into stretching out the periods between wishes, so that he may spend more time in his exquisite company. Nigel had always been a lover of beauty, in whatever form it came, and this one was certainly beautiful. Suddenly, he realized he was still holding Adam's hand, and he released it. "Right, well." Feeling a touch embarrassed, he glanced down at his clothes. "I see fashion has changed a bit?"

Adam smiled at him for the first time. It was radiant, and Nigel found himself staring. "What's the last year you remember?"

"Mmm. 1955? Late in the year."

"It's 2017," Adam informed him. "You've been in that bottle for 62 years."

He nodded thoughtfully. "85, give or take. I’ve been out several times since I was first bound to it, but never long enough to bother changing my wardrobe. Maybe this time I’ll give it a try." He shrugged genially, and then tugged off his heavy fur. It was warm in the attic, and he was beginning to feel it. Adam watched him with wide eyes as he slowly disrobed, and Nigel grinned at the pinkening of his cheeks, until his hand on the fly of his trousers made Adam violently start. The young man headed straight for the stairs and clattered down, Nigel's gentle chuckle following him down. Deprived of his audience, Nigel tugged off his trousers with haste and shook them out to drape over the back of the chair, joining the jacket and shirt. Now just in his briefs, he puzzled for a moment over what to do now.

The attic was neatly organized, and by the stairs there was a rack of old, cast-off clothing. Nigel sorted through it until he found an orange and brown plaid button-down shirt and a pair of soft brown trousers that looked like they might fit. He tugged on the pants-- they were a little big but a belt would fix that. The shirt was, conversely, a bit too tight, so he left the top buttons undone and decided to forgo a tie. The sleeves, much too short, he rolled up to just below his elbows. His shoes, beautifully tooled black leather brogues, would have to do-- he had no residual magic left from his tiny stockpile, having used it all in manipulating the lock on the attic door. He would need some time to regenerate more, which would be easy now that he had a new master and the ability to spend time out in the real world. Looking down at himself, he grimaced, and refused to think melodramatic thoughts about the mighty and their struggle with gravity. He had never been mighty - only unlucky, and the height of his fall was directly related to the depth of his stupidity. There was no mirror up in the attic, which was fine. He had no wish to see the mark of his enslavement, a very conspicuous all black tattoo of a jazz-age pinup girl on the left side of his neck. It was the very likeness of the exotic woman that had tricked him that fateful night and changed his life forever. He rubbed at it while looking absent-mindedly at the floor.

A little voice in his mind began to whisper, ‘Better not keep the master waiting, dear Nigel.’

“Yeah, yeah!” he bristled, his expression momentarily twisting into a snarl. And then he turned and trotted downstairs in pursuit of Adam.

The little house was new to him, though he had ghosted through it on occasion when boredom became more than he could endure. The people who lived here were totally unrelated to him, having bought the house from the man Nigel had last served. Nigel had spent his thin magic on keeping the house in good repair, always hopeful that new people would come to the attic. He had moved his bottle, achingly slow, out of its little corner and onto the tabletop, but no one had taken the bait. Until now. He considered that perhaps his luck was finally taking a turn for the better.

Adam was sitting on the couch, watching Nigel as he stood at the foot of the attic stairs. The young man smiled, tentatively, and leaned forward. "Can I get you something to drink? I have milk, and soda, and water, but it's water from the tap, and I know some people don't drink water from the tap.”

Nigel smiled at him. "I can get you anything you desire, Adam. All you have to do is express a wish for it."

Adam gave him a look that hovered between confused and intrigued. "But I have everything I need here. Although if you would like something else, tell me what that is, and I'll wish for it for you." Nigel stared at him, his eyebrows slowly creasing inward. Adam stared for a moment, and then dropped his gaze. "Did I say something offensive? I don't know the protocols for our relationship, so I apologize if I've said something wrong." He winced shyly. "I've never been friends with a genie."

Nigel shook his head and took the opportunity to kneel at Adam's feet, trying to make himself as unthreatening as possible. "Adam, I think you've got this the wrong way round, beautiful. You're the fucking boss, alright? You can say anything you fucking want to me; ask for anything you want. I'm here to serve your needs."

Adam sank immediately from the couch to the floor, putting them on the same level. Nigel thought to go any lower he would have to sink to the floor. Who was this kid, anyway? Adam fixed on him with a grave stare. "Nigel, I am frequently confused about what to say to people, but I know that's not right." He patted Nigel's knee, very gingerly. "I think you are a nice person. Why would I want to order you around?"

Nigel stared at him. "Because I'm your slave, Adam."

Adam shook his head. "I don't want a slave. You're a person, Nigel. It's wrong for one person to own another."

Nigel scoffed at him. "Just because it's wrong doesn't mean it's not fucking done." Adam winced a bit at the ugly truth spoken by Nigel, which made Nigel felt guilty for his lack of tact. “Look, I get that you don't want a slave. So, you wish for three things and I'm no longer bound to you. Does that sound acceptable?"

Adam tilted his head, thoughtful. "Promise?"

Nigel made an X over his heart with one finger. "Promise, darling."

Adam smiled at him then, and Nigel's long-desiccated heart lurched a little in his chest.


	3. Clover Club Cocktail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam and Nigel settle in for the night.

_The Clover Club Cocktail is a cocktail consisting of Gin, Lemon Juice, Raspberry Syrup, and an egg white. The egg white is not added for the purpose of giving the drink flavor, but rather acts as an emulsifier._  
_Use 1/4 oz Raspberry Syrup (or Grenadine), 1½ oz Gin, 3/4 oz Lemon Juice, and 1 Egg White._  
_Dry shake ingredients to emulsify, add ice, shake and served straight up._

 

“Do you eat, Nigel?” Adam had straightened back up and made his way to the little kitchen, turning to look over his shoulder at his unexpected guest in the living room. Nigel grinned at him, exposing sharp canines.

“Anything but gin, gorgeous.”

Adam smiled back. “I wouldn’t serve you something that you have been living in for eight decades.”

Nigel held out a long-fingered hand. “I can bring you any food you desire, Adam,” he offered, trying for that mystical intonation that he thought made him sound mysterious.

The effort was totally lost on Adam. “That’s not necessary, Nigel. I just went shopping.” Adam then went to the freezer to take out two boxes of frozen macaroni and cheese. He removed them from their packaging and set them into the microwave to heat for eating.

Nigel watched his master’s ministrations, wondering to himself just what it would take to get Adam to make a wish. In Nigel’s experience, there were usually two kinds of wishers. Some people would jump right into it, immediately wishing for something they’d always desired right after he was summoned, later taking their time with the final two, wanting to drag it out as long as possible after rashly choosing something extravagant and somewhat useless with their impulsive first wish. Adam seemed to fit into the other group of people. These trepidating fellows would agonize for months on end over what they wanted, mentally pacing back and forth between desirable outcomes, weighing pros and cons, driving Nigel to fucking madness as he waited for them to make up their goddamn minds. But, this group was somewhat easier in the long run. After they’d finally make their first wish, the other two ended up coming very quickly.

He watched Adam move easily around the tiny kitchen with a calculating stare, waiting for the young man to pepper him with questions about what sorts of wishes were allowed (there were a few rules, but the basics indicated an appropriate wish was anything that didn’t harm another human, which didn’t seem like it would be a problem with this gentle creature, but you never knew with the quiet ones...), or whether he could wish for more wishes (no. Jesus H, if Nigel had a wish for every time some idiot had tried that one, he would be a millionaire living in Borneo right now.) When no barrage of questions immediately came, Nigel sat down at the little kitchen table, stroking his finger over the open laptop. “What’s this? It looks like some kind of strange fucking typewriter, but where’s the ribbon?” He turned over the slim machine and peered at the bottom. “Where do you put the typing paper?”

Adam beamed at him as he brought the prepared macaroni and cheese back to the table. “It’s a laptop computer, Nigel.” He took it gently from Nigel’s hand and turned it back over to press his thumb against the on button. The screen lit up, showing a picture of the Orion Nebula. Adam entered his pin and the screen was populated with icons. Nigel watched impassively, internally reeling. This was so far beyond him, he didn’t even have words. Adam smiled at him, and tapped a small device that sat on a soft pad next to the laptop. A screen opened and Nigel flinched back a tiny bit, startled. Adam ignored it, and tapped the small device again. In full color, a balding man with glasses was sitting at a table, speaking with an attractive woman. He asked her a question - ’ _What is your favorite word?_ ’ - and Nigel was entranced at the realism of it. He shot a cautious smile at Adam, since the young man had not show an inclination to make fun of him yet.

“Is this what happened to the television?”

Adam tilted his head, nodding thoughtfully. “Media has undergone many changes since 1955. For instance, households that relied on radio and newspaper for their news began to rely on television instead,” He settled into his chair and picked up his fork, but did not eat, rather just sat there staring off to the side of the table as he continued. “Radio shows became television shows, and the shared experience of media became a cultural touchstone.” He waved his fork, and Nigel watched his sweet face become absorbed in his explanation. “And then, the internet was invented, and it slowly replaced television, and then families weren’t watching the same things anymore. Culturally, we became fractured again.” He dipped his head, the light from the screen reflecting in his eyes, and took a small bite of the macaroni, chewing it thoroughly before he took a drink of water to wash it down. “Now we have the technology to watch anything we wish, at any time.” He smiled, his face lighting up. “I could find shows on YouTube that you might have seen in 1955, if you would like that? YouTube is a website that collects millions of digital videos in one place,” he added.

“Millions?” Nigel scoffed. “How is that even possible? Even if you collected all the movies ever made, and all the TV shows, there couldn’t be more than ten thousand, surely?”

Adam beamed at him. “It’s not just officially produced media. We have technology that allows us to take video from our phones. Anything from cat videos to documentation of police assault.”

“Cat videos? Why would people waste their time on filming their cats?” Nigel felt the smile on his face before he realised what it was. The moving screen had lost all fascination for him, and he was fixated on Adam’s beautiful, animated face. He realized that he was staring, but couldn’t think of anything to say, so he picked up his fork instead, and speared a noodle. It tasted salty and bland, but he chewed it anyway, swallowing quickly. Adam frowned at him; his face must have given him away. He was out of practice. “Is it not to your liking? It’s organic. I’ll show you cat videos later this evening, if you want?”

“It’s wonderful, Adam,” Nigel lied. He had no idea what organic meant, but he assumed it wasn’t going to outright kill him. “I’m just not accustomed to eating. And I would love to see some cat videos,” he added, stretching the truth only insofar as he had the growing certainty that he would watch a video of water boiling if he could do so with Adam next to him.

Adam continued on, oblivious to the djinn’s growing regard for him. “Would you like to go shopping with me? Tomorrow is Friday, and I was planning on taking the bus to the observatory where I work again, but…” Adam looked down at his food, his eyes flicking back and forth in some internal computation. “Today was very successful, and I can see that you have the need for clothing that fits you.” He eyed Nigel’s tight shirt and then, wonderfully, blushed. “Not that you don’t look very attractive, because you do, but you are broader than I am, and my clothing isn’t fancy like the suit you were wearing. We could also go grocery shopping for food you might like.”

Nigel allowed him to talk himself out, loathe to interrupt that lovely voice, the first he had heard in so long. He thought, dangerously, that he might not tire of that voice at all. He set down his fork and reached across the table to lay a gentle finger on the back of Adam’s hand. “Whatever you want, darling, is fine with me.”

“Oh,” Adam replied, and blinked at him, blushing harder. Then he smiled, and Nigel’s heart kicked against his ribs.

 

* * *

 

Nigel didn’t need to sleep, but he did enjoy the luxury of stretching out full-length on the couch. His shoes and socks were tucked neatly under the edge, and he wiggled his toes in satisfaction as he listened to Adam making getting-ready-for-bed noises. At least the essentials hadn’t changed in 70 years. Brush teeth, change into soft clothing, pull down the bedcovers. Adam’s movements were quiet and precise, much like his gentle precision in the kitchen, and in showing Nigel how to work the laptop. The kid, realizing that Nigel had no mental framework for anything like it, had walked him through clicking on the YouTube icon on the screen, and then showed him how to identify the search bar and how to type in words. Nigel could type, at least, and surprisingly the keyboard was identical to the one he used when he was younger, working in Darko’s warehouse and keeping track of sales and transactions, goods and inventory of other kinds. He was even able to locate some archival footage of the old Clover Club on his own, the men’s club where his life was changed forever one fateful night. He cleared his throat as he quickly stopped the video, suddenly overcome with a quiet rage as he heard the echoing of laughter bouncing around the back of his skull.

A moment later and Adam was mildly apologetic when he brought a finish to the lesson. “I need to sleep now. I would appreciate it if you didn’t wake me unless there is an emergency.”

“So don’t wake you if I can’t find what i’m looking for?”

Adam frowned at him. “If you do I will be very tired tomorrow.”

Nigel held up his hands in surrender. “I won’t bother you, gorgeous.”

But as the sounds of Adam quieted to soft breathing and the shuffling of sheets, Nigel experienced a confusing swirl of emotion. He was elated to be out, and charmed by his new master. Overwhelmed by how much the world hand changed, and grieved by how much he had missed. Everyone he knew would be dead now, making Adam the only soul in the world that could call him by name. He frowned at the laptop, feeling the tendrils of genuine melancholy, so different from his bored despair at being trapped. Now he was out, but what was there for him here?


End file.
